4. Josie

4

JOSIE

A light stubble shadowed Wyatt's jaw, like he'd skipped shaving this morning. His nose was a bit crooked, no doubt the result of several hockey-related breaks and his brown hair was tousled, the ends curled. What really drew me in were his eyes. Baby blues framed by luscious eyelashes held my steadfast gaze.

Of course I'd seen his image over the years; television commercials, magazines—his face was everywhere. He even laid claim to the title of Toronto's Sexist Man Alive. You'd have to be living under a rock to not know who he is. Yet, none of those did him justice. He was more attractive in person. Which was truly unfair, in my opinion.

When I failed to say anything, he spoke, sounding a bit curt and tense.

"Do you know who I am?"

For a moment I wasn't sure if the way he sat there, with his shoulders set and his arms folded, was arrogance. That he was used to women throwing themselves at him and expected the same from me. Or, that he hoped I wouldn't. I found him surprisingly hard to read. The last thing I was going to do was fawn all over him. It took more than amazing sports skills and good looks to make a girl's panties drop. This girl's at least.

As he cleared his throat, I realized I still hadn't answered him. "Of course I know who you are. I'm from Toronto." I raised my eyebrows at him. Thanks to my dad, I've always been an avid hockey fan. The two of us had spent many hours together watching every Knights game . It was our thing. Even if you weren't a hockey fan, it would be hard not to know who Wyatt Boone was.

Ever since entering the League at just 19, one of the youngest to do so, he'd been a big deal. A first-round pick with the Knights, he led the team to the semi-finals of the Cup Championship the first year. It was a huge deal.

"And?" His shoulders were so hunched they were almost up to his ears.

"And? Is this the part where I'm supposed to scream and throw my underwear at you?" I asked, genuinely wanting to know. He was acting like I was seconds away from launching myself at him. "I knew who you were the moment you sat down," I admitted.

"The cap wasn't much of a cover, huh?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Your bag has the Toronto Knights logo, and you introduced yourself as Wyatt. Not hard to put two and two together," I pointed out with a shrug. I swore I saw his cheeks flush as he looked down at his gym bag.

"Oh. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was waiting for you to say something," I confessed. "At least now you can keep your cap out of your eyes."

"You seem really…chill about it," he sounded a little disappointed which made me chuckle.

"Sorry to disappoint. Do you want me to throw myself at you? I will if you want," I grinned.

Finally, he smiled, and I felt my heart flutter. "No, that's okay." Yet, he kept looking at me like he was still waiting for me to freak out. Watching him look so uncomfortable was amusing, but I decided to put him out of his misery.

"It is kind of insane that I'm stuck in an elevator with Wyatt Boone. But I'm not going to go all batshit crazy on you, I promise." I gave him a small smile, hoping he knew I was serious.

"I…thanks."

"It's nice to officially meet you, Wyatt Boone," I said, and the relief in him was palpable as his frown lightened and his shoulders relaxed.

"Nice to meet you, too."

While Wyatt appeared more relaxed, silence quickly fell over us once again as I tried to fight back the urge to stare at him.

"So, you grew up in Toronto?" he finally asked. Turning his cap over in his hands, he turned and looked at me, a slight hesitation in his eyes. Admittedly, if I was in his shoes I would have been the same way.

"I did. Well, on the outskirts of the city until I moved away for university."

"Oh nice! Where did you go to study?" he asked, his eyebrows raised, and I was surprised to see he seemed genuinely interested.

"Toronto University. I know, pretty standard, but I was offered a scholarship and couldn't pass up the full ride. How about you?"

"I actually went to York," he replied.

I gave an exaggerated gasp and clasped my hands to my face. "My rival school! I should have known!" I shook my head, my smile widening.

"Hey, not my fault York is a better school," he said, playfully tossing his cap in the air before catching it with one hand.

"You did not just say that."

"What? It's the truth," he shrugged, and I couldn't take my eyes off the playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"But which school is the higher ranked in Toronto?" I raised my eyebrows at him. My alma mater prided itself on the prestigious ranking. As Wyatt grunted, I knew I was right. "It's pretty cool that you got to go to university while playing hockey. That must have been hard."

"It was exhausting, I won't lie. Early morning practices, a day of classes and then practice again. My life pretty much revolved around either classrooms or the rink," he chuckled at the memory. "Even if I was only there for a year."

"It was obviously worth it though," I said. "All that dedication got you where you are today." I found myself wanting to find out about the man beyond all the publicity. There was something intriguing about him that made me want to know more about his life—away from the rink and the cameras.

"Do you ever think about what you would have done, if you didn't play hockey?" I blurted before I could stop myself. Wyatt was quiet for a moment as my question hung in the air. "Truthfully?" he finally asked.

Nodding, I turned my body to face him, tucking my legs underneath me.

Wyatt let out a long sigh. "I'm not sure, to be honest. My life's always revolved around hockey, for as long as I can remember. I grew up watching it and I was on the ice before I could even walk. Making it to the League was my dream–I hadn't allowed the room to have any other real interests. Then I got hurt." His brow darkened briefly, giving away a glimpse of grief that I was all-too familiar with.

The knowledge that came from knowing you could lose everything you've worked so hard for, in a split second. "Things have just been a bit…off, since" he said, and I noticed the look of surprise on his face, as though he wasn't used to being so honest with someone, especially a stranger. Getting stuck in an elevator will do that. It's like confined spaces make you drop your guard.

"I get that. After an injury it's mainly a mental game."

"You sound like you have some experience with it," he replied, and the way he looked at me made me feel like he wanted to see what it was underneath it all. To see what made me tick. It was a look I was unfamiliar with.

"I tore my ACL a few years back," I confessed, and the memories flashed through my mind before I blinked them away.

Wyatt whistled. "Damn. That's brutal." He stretched his right leg out, as though recalling his own ACL injury I knew he'd gone through the year before. Everyone freaked out watching the star player injured and carted off the ice.

While ACL tears can be common among professional athletes, it wasn't typically common among hockey players. Then again, all it took was to take a hit at just the right angle, and the ligament by the knee goes. It's painful and can take months to heal, even after surgery and physical therapy.

I remember watching it happen. Wyatt's injury was splattered all over the news and social media as sport analysts talked about the difficulties with making a comeback from that kind of injury. They asked the question everyone asked themselves. How would the team survive without Wyatt playing?

"It's a bitch," I agreed. "It took me a while to trust my leg again."

"How did you hurt it?" he asked, and unconsciously my hand drifted to my right leg and rubbed at my knee. Sometimes I swore I could still feel a phantom pain.

"Running track."

"You ran track?"

I nodded. "Yeah, back in high school and then into uni. I got hurt my junior year."

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

I waved off his apology. "It's fine. It feels like another lifetime ago. I'm sorry about your ACL, though."

"I take it you already knew about my injury?" As he ducked his head, it was obvious to me that he was uncomfortable talking about it.

"I did." I tried to keep my face neutral. I know better than anyone how annoying pity is. It must be worse when the whole world watched you get hurt. "I'm going to tell you a little secret that saved me," I said in a dramatic whisper as I leaned forward. "Baby aspirin and Pepper paste."

He raised an eyebrow. "Pepper Paste?"

I smiled and nodded. "Get some cayenne and mix it with either olive oil, coconut oil, or even water to make a paste and put it on your knee for thirty minutes."

Wyatt stared at me, his mouth agape, like I had three heads. "You're messing with me." He shook his head, his skepticism obvious as he leaned against the wall.

"It sounds weird, I know, but trust me. The baby aspirin is easier on your stomach than painkillers they prescribe, and I found it helped more anyway. The paste does wonders, even long after the injury has healed." I knew it sounded weird using a pepper paste but I swore by it. I couldn't tell you how it worked but it just did.

"Pepper Paste," Wyatt scoffed.

"Don't knock it ‘til you've tried it," I dared. "And when it works, you can go on national television and tell the world that Josie Scott was right," I grinned.

"National television?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yep. You can even add a big sign if you'd like."

Wyatt laughed loudly, looking so free and at ease for a moment. It was damn sexy.

"A sign…noted."